Page 2 of Beastly Armory

“Well, we’ll clean it up… It’s home, Ari.” When I glance down, her huge brown eyes fill with tears. She pins herself to my side, and my arm capes protectively around her shoulders.

“Home.” She sniffs. “Thank you, Max.”

“I got you. I’ll take care of you. Told you I would.”

She’s never had a real home before, living at school and then with me in various shanties over the last few years. Trying to keep us afloat, I had to fight, even do things I wasn’t proud of, things that would make Mama and Papa ache with disappointment. This place brought me comfort. A vague recollection of belonging and safety lives among the empty halls. Before I achieve my final goal, I want to give her that feeling, too.

The entry opens into a narrow passageway, which has one step down into a massive two-story living room. The furniture is the same, but I don’t stop to consider it. Not at this hour. After driving all day, I need some rest, even if that’s with some owls or mice. Stepping through the room, my boots stick in soft mud, evidence of this area having received most of nature’s wrath: leaves, twigs, water…all pooled onto the sunken floor.

Left untouched by the elements, the creepy pipe organ stands erect, towering over the room. I always hated that thing; its dissonant tones remind me of my harsh grandfather. Once, while our parents were away on vacation, he monitored the estate. If I made an error onmy lessons, he would force me to stand with my back against the wall, balancing a ruler on one finger while he played some horrific tunes. Any time the ruler faltered, he would use it to smack my face.

Meandering through the room until we reach the staircase, I wave off Ari so I can go first, making sure it’s steady enough for my weight. Skilled craftsmen built the solid steps hundreds of years ago. Despite the squeaks protesting my arrival, the wood has held up. I test each one with my foot before putting my full body onto them and carefully make my way to the second story.

At the top, I turn toward the right hallway without any thought. The door resting in a darkened alcove swings open wildly when I twist the brass knob to my old bedroom. Everything is just the way it was before. Blue checked duvet. Cowboys on the walls. A basketball hoop hanging from the closet door. Even my clothes are piled in the corner from the night we dashed away.

There are no animals, but the stench of rot is ripe. The bedding is chill and damp. Everything in the house has given up, clearly not expecting my return. Dropping my luggage on the hardwood, I pull out my sleeping bag and lay it out over the bed, too tired to deal with the mess tonight.

“Mine’s perfect!” Arianna yells from down the hall.

We shared a bathroom all those years ago. Strolling through it, I notice how bare, but clean, it remains. Startling at my own reflection in the mirror, I’m amazed at how much the image has changed since the last time I was here. My black hair is a disheveled mess fromrunning my fingers through it repeatedly, and the dark circles under my eyes match their color.

What was her name? Mrs. Molly, that was it. She kept everything tidy, scolding me for spraying toothpaste on the sink or dribbling urine next to the toilet. Her breath smelled like coffee. I only heard her laugh once when the butler tripped on the hall runner and fell into a lemon pie Cook had made for his birthday. Other than Papa and Mama, she and our governess were the only ones allowed to discipline “Master Freidenberg.” I don’t think Papa would have approved of Grandfather’s punishments if he had known about them.

Entering Ari’s room, my eyes are assaulted by Pepto pink when I swing my flashlight around. Pink walls, furniture, bedding, rugs…It’s veryher.

“My dollhouse is still here!” She rises from behind the tall Victorian model, a happy replica of the foreboding structure we stand in, holding out one of her toys. Her white teeth shine in the light. I haven’t seen her this happy in a long time. She looks just like she did that Christmas when Papa pulled off the bow for her, as if twenty years have passed with a flash of her smile.

“Are you going to play with that tonight?” My hand clutches her soft comforter. It’s dry. I set her bag on the floor next to the canopied four-poster bed.

“No, silly. I’m going back to sleep.” She eyes the open curtains, stepping back from the row of windows facing the front lawn. Hugging her middle with both arms, she asks, “You’ll be just across the hall, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll be a few steps away.” Sliding out my Glockfrom my back, I check the chamber. One in. “You’re safe. Just holler if you need me.” In two steps, I cross over to her and plant a small kiss on my little sister’s forehead. I give it thirty minutes before she’s trying to sleep in my room, just like when we were kids. She always had nightmares about bulls rushing to gore her. No idea where she had seen something like that before.

Thinking about all the tasks that need completion in the morning, it doesn’t take me long to fall into a deep trance. My warmth encapsulated by the cocoon of my sleeping bag, I dream of my mother’s comforting hugs and my father’s laughing smile—things I haven’t experienced in years. Not since the day before they were murdered.

Startling awake, an arm snakes itself tightly around my middle. Slowly, my hand slips under the pillow, fingers feeling for my gun. Peeking one eye open, I see Ari nestling against me. Whenever things would change in our lives, when we’d have to leave in a hurry to make it to a new place in the middle of the night, she’d come find me after tossing and turning, afraid to sleep alone.

I sleep like the dead because I’m already half-way there.

Easing out from under her, I’m careful to let her rest. As I shuffle to the front door, I survey the damages. Daylight exposes years of neglect. My focus is on what once was and what will be again. This is a challenge, but nothing will stop me from my mission.

I’m home. And there’s something powerful about being where you’re supposed to be.

The morning air is clean and refreshes my lungs from the damp musk inside. Hazy light bathes the circular drive that once held a working fountain, now left in a crumbling concrete pile. At the base is a tarnished copper plaque emblazoned with my great-great-great-grandfather’s name. Fishing my cock out of my jeans, I piss all over it, then spray the ruins and some wild shrubs as well.

“Mine.”

“If you only had to spill urine to claim it.” A chuckle rumbles from around the other side of the rubble, and my hand draws my handgun in a flash. “Down, son. It’s me.”

Markus’s ruddy face greets me with three days of white scruff and bloodshot eyes. He’s still wearing his old red flannel shirt I remember from the last time I saw him, his familiar presence soothing my inner turmoil. Zipping up, I reach out to embrace him. “Hey.”

“Hello, boy. I would say I’m glad to see you, but I’m not.” He surveys the house. “Not here anyway.” His overweight body backs up to stand at an arm’s length. Light eyes take me in behind their thick glasses, scanning my assuredness. Placing a hand on my shoulder, he asks, “I can’t talk you out of this?”

“No.”

He nods soberly. “That was my last try.” Before letting go of me, he pats my shoulder with fatherly affection. “Let’s get started, then.”

We walk side by side to the front door.

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